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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742090">my joy would be complete</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/pseuds/imperfectcircle'>imperfectcircle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stories by theme: Short and introspective [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Holding Hands, Jon has a lot of feelings, M/M, No S5 spoilers, post-159, pre-160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:08:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,168</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742090</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/pseuds/imperfectcircle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Would you like some tea?" Jon asks. </p><p>Martin starts to shrug and then catches himself. There's a moment where Jon's sure Martin's going to laugh or cry or let out some jagged, awful scream, but all he says is, "Yes. Please."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Stories by theme: Short and introspective [12]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/327377</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>236</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>my joy would be complete</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to singlecrow for beta! &lt;3 Any and all mistakes remain mine.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon doesn't let go of Martin's hand. He's aware it's selfish of him. Cowardly, too. They're out of the Lonely now; there's no need for this. </p><p>Martin, meanwhile, is quiet. Passive. Allows Jon to get him out of the Institute, into the Underground, out again to do the fifteen minute walk from the tube station to his empty flat, all while making no complaint, all while Jon refuses to let go of his hand. </p><p>Jon wants to say something. Doesn't know what to say. Has a part of his brain dedicated to reminding him that he can let go now, this is weird, this is ridiculous, stop treating Martin like a child. Has another, louder part of his brain that would fuse their hands together if it could, let their interlocking fingers stay that way forever. And then there's the part of his brain that would wrap itself like creeping ivy around every inch of Martin if he let it, would push and push until it saw and knew and held every crack and every detail. </p><p>It's not normal, the way he feels about Martin. It's too much. Too possessive and too raw and too monstrous. He has given too much of himself to the Eye to love the way Martin deserves to be loved. All he can do is love with what he has left. </p><p>They sit silently on Martin's ratty sofa. Jon examines Martin's square fingers and bitten hangnails, his mild shaving rash and his chapped lips, the crease of his shirt and the tiny scar on one knuckle from a childhood fall. Martin stares into space. </p><p>"Would you like some tea?" Jon asks. </p><p>Martin starts to shrug and then catches himself. There's a moment where Jon's sure Martin's going to laugh or cry or let out some jagged, awful scream, but all he says is, "Yes. Please."</p><p>Jon doesn't let go of Martin's hand, so Martin has to come with him to the kitchen. </p><p>Martin watches Jon silently fumble left-handed filling the kettle. He doesn't say anything. </p><p>When Martin was twelve years old, Jon knows suddenly, he sprained his wrist falling at an awkward angle. For five weeks, any household tasks that required both hands simply didn't get done. By the time he had full use of the hand again, he'd worked out how to do a lot of things one-handed. </p><p>"Martin," Jon says. "I." He stops. Makes himself think it through. Everything he wants to say but can't is selfish -- <em>I want, I feel, I can't, I love</em> -- and Martin deserves better than that. He pauses, careful not to phrase the next sentence as a question. "If you would like to talk about it, I'll listen."</p><p>Martin does the same almost-shrug as before, catching himself a fraction of a second earlier this time. "No, thank you."</p><p>Well. That's something, at least. </p><p>The kettle boils. Jon makes them two cups of entirely adequate tea. </p><p>They each take a cup back to the sofa. </p><p>"Martin."</p><p>Martin looks at Jon, exhaustion written across his face. He doesn't look down at their clasped hands. </p><p>"Thank you for saving me," Martin says dully. "It was very kind of you." </p><p>Jon aches. </p><p>Here is what he wants to say: </p><p>
  <em>Martin. I love you. You are very dear to me. I tried to live without you and I didn't like it at all. You're the best part of everything. I love you.</em>
</p><p>Here is what he does say:</p><p>"It wasn't kind."</p><p>Martin allows a head tilt of acknowledgement. "Yes, perhaps it wasn't."</p><p>"No, I mean, I didn't do it to be kind. I did it because --" <em>Because I love you, I love you, I love you. Because you're Martin Blackwood, you always want the best for people, you cared for me when I didn't care for myself, you're funny and insightful and solid in a world that tried its very best to stop you being all those things. You once told Elias you couldn't hear him telling you to open the door because there was a door in the way, and then when he did get in, you let him be unspeakably cruel to you just to buy us a chance at justice.</em> </p><p>Martin takes Jon's silence as an answer. </p><p>"No," Jon makes himself say. "I can't let go of your hand."</p><p>Martin glances down as if this is the first time he's noticed their joined hands sitting between them. "I'm sorry," he says, a reflex. "I can--"</p><p>If he lets go of Jon's hand Jon will die. </p><p>"Don't," Jon says. </p><p>Martin looks at him again. Polite. Passive. As if Jon is a stranger who has started talking to him in another language, and while Martin may not understand or be able to help, there's still no need to be rude. </p><p><em>You used to love me,</em> Jon doesn't say. <em>I'm sorry it took me so long.</em></p><p>"The Lonely doesn't leave you all at once," Jon says instead. "I'll be with you for as long as it takes." </p><p>"Thank you," Martin says, a polite formulation. </p><p>Jon doesn't argue. Just keeps hold of Martin's hand. </p><p>Here is what a better man would say: </p><p>
  <em>Tell me how to help you best and I will do it. Tell me how to love you best and I will do it. Tell me what you want and I will strive with every useless part of myself to give it to you.</em>
</p><p>Here is what Jon says:</p><p>"I'll sleep on the floor by your bed."</p><p>"You don't have to do that," Martin says. Polite. Gentle. Confused. Distant. "You should take the bed. I'll sleep in here." Adds, with a trace of a self-deprecating smile: "I've got more padding."</p><p>Jon loves Martin's padding. Jon truly and honestly cannot live without the roundness of Martin's belly and the softness of his arms. If Martin sleeps in here, Jon will sleep in here too. Jon wants to protect Martin from the smell of sea air and the creeping fog, and if Martin would let him he'd sleep curled up at Martin's feet like a dog. He wants to show him devotion with his whole body. </p><p>He says, "Let me stay here, please." It's a request, but not a question. "You shouldn't be alone right now."</p><p>Martin regards him kindly. "Take all the time you need."</p><p>Jon will surely have to let go of Martin's hand at some point. Perhaps in a few years' time? </p><p>"Would you like something to eat?" Martin offers, as if he's reading from a manual on how to host an unexpected guest who refuses to leave. </p><p>Jon laughs without humour. "I've eaten." </p><p>The manual doesn't seem to have an answer to that, so Martin just turns and stares at the wall.</p><p>Time passes. Jon says nothing. </p><p>Martin's eyes are still storm grey. His bones, Jon knows, for all he wants to give Martin his privacy, are still cold. The smell of fog and seawater is strong around him. </p><p>Jon has never been a patient man, but for Martin he will try. </p><p>He's patient for nearly an hour. </p><p>"You're sure you don't want to talk about it," he says. </p><p>"I thought you weren't hungry?"</p><p>Jon could feast on every one of Martin's secrets, every detail, however minor; every word; every thought. He could gorge himself on them and never be satisfied. Every part of Martin is precious to him, and all Jon knows how to do is use them up. </p><p>"No, I didn't mean that," Jon says instead. "Only if it would help you. I don't have to, it doesn't have to be like that."</p><p>"Then no, thank you," Martin says. Perhaps he's right. Perhaps it does have to be like that now. </p><p>Jon doesn't let go of Martin's hand as they prepare for bed. Jon brushes his teeth left-handed. It's awkward, but he thinks he catches a glimpse in the mirror of something that might be amusement on Martin's face, and that's worth any amount of minor indignity. </p><p>"May I get changed?" Martin asks him in the bathroom mirror. Again, there's that slightest flicker of amusement, as if some tiny part of him recognises the ridiculousness of the situation -- of Jon. </p><p>If Martin's eyes were rich, warm brown again, Jon would say no just to see what Martin would do next. </p><p>Instead, he makes himself let go. </p><p>"Only you're still holding my hand," Martin says, the ghost of a hint of laughter in his voice. </p><p>Ah. False start. But now Jon lets go. </p><p>"Which will make getting changed awkward," Martin continues. </p><p>This time, Jon absolutely does let go of Martin's hand. </p><p>"We can do this again afterwards?" Martin offers, looking mildly at where, for some reason, Jon is still holding his hand. </p><p>"I don't seem to be able to let go," Jon says. </p><p>Martin's eyes flick to him, quick and startled but still that same terrible storm grey. Martin takes a breath. Lets it out. </p><p>"Why not?" </p><p>He asks the question like he's not expecting to like the answer. </p><p><em>Because I love you and I nearly lost you,</em> Jon adds to the pile of words he can't make himself say. <em>Because in the absence of anyone who deserves you, you're stuck with me. Because I need you.</em></p><p>At Jon's silence, Martin starts to shrug, catches himself, and then visibly decides to continue. "Okay."</p><p>It's not okay. Martin shouldn't be left alone right now, but that doesn't mean Jon gets to treat him like a comfort blanket. Jon's the one who should be comforting Martin, and so far all he's done is make him some tea and deny him autonomy. </p><p>He pulls Martin out of the bathroom and sits them both down on Martin's bed. </p><p>"You saw me talking to a cat," Jon tells Martin. </p><p>He feels Martin tense. </p><p>"I smiled at it and said something nonsensical. It let me scratch behind its ears." </p><p>Martin clearly wants to draw in on himself. "I never told you that."</p><p>"I know," Jon says. "I'm sorry. I didn't go looking for it." </p><p>Then: "I wasn't very nice to you, but you didn't mind that. Or you did, but it didn't stop you wanting to be close to me. To look after me." He pauses. "Tell me if you want me to stop."</p><p>Martin says nothing. </p><p>"I had a breakdown and you tried to help. You were there for me. We became something like friends. You wanted to be the person I turned to when I needed something, but you weren't. And then you were, but it was six months and an ocean of grief too late. Tell me if you want me to stop."</p><p>Martin stays silent. He's holding Jon's hand very tightly. The smell of the sea is still present, but less overpowering. </p><p>"I didn't like you when we met," Jon says. "You irritated me by being there, and you irritated me by not being there. You were too nice to people who didn't deserve it. You listened to people where any normal person would have told them to shut up. You made yourself smaller. I didn't want to notice and I didn't want to care. You were irritating. Tell me if you want me to stop."</p><p>Martin doesn't let go of Jon's hand.</p><p>"You were nice to me when I didn't deserve it. You listened to me when you should have told me to shut up. If I was determined to believe the world was against me, you made it so I had to choose to lie. You made me laugh. You cared. Tell me if you want me to stop."</p><p>Martin shakes his head.</p><p>"I fell for you so slowly I only noticed when I landed. You became the beating of my heart, one small kindness at a time. I trusted you. I trust you. I made a choice to hold on to the scraps of my humanity, and you believed I could. Tell me if you want me to stop."</p><p>Martin says, "Go on."</p><p>"I didn't come into the Lonely for you as a kindness," Jon says. "I'm not here as a kindness. I'm here because --" Say it. <em>Say it.</em> Martin deserves everything. Jon can at least give him this. "I'm here because--"</p><p>Martin pats Jon's hand where it's holding his. His eyes are still storm grey, but his bones, Jon knows without wanting to, are a little less cold. "It's okay. You don't have to say it."</p><p>It's not. It's not okay. Martin deserves to hear this. </p><p>"I love you," Jon says and his heart doesn't stop and the sky doesn't fall in and he's still here, vulnerable and afraid, holding the hand of the man he loves, trying not to let him down. "I'm in love with you. You don't have to, I'm not asking for anything. But I would like very much to help you."</p><p>Martin's smile is a tiny fragile wisp of a thing, too small and too tentative to last for long. "Okay." He doesn't make Jon let go of his hand.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos much appreciated! </p><p>Please feel free to come say hi on twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/krfabian">@krfabian</a>.</p><p>Title from the Tom Lehrer song <a href="https://genius.com/Tom-lehrer-i-hold-your-hand-in-mine-lyrics">I hold your hand in mine</a>, and yes, I do think I'm very funny, thanks.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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